


lost boys and bleeding hearts

by fuckofagun



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Character Study, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 10:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20872904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckofagun/pseuds/fuckofagun
Summary: Pete created a façade, you see.He can't help but to notice that Ryan did too.





	lost boys and bleeding hearts

**Author's Note:**

> A character study, of sorts. No underage sex, just underage kissing.

Pete created a façade, you see.

He created a version of himself, one for public consumption, one with soft eyes and messy hair that made bad jokes and followed Patrick around with puppy dog eyes and childish words. He might have been king of the hardcore scene, might have been respected in that sense, but that was years ago, before the kids picked up on his music and he had to smooth out his edges for television cameras and talk show screens. It’s not that he doesn’t think the kids can handle it, but there’s something to be said for marketability, and he can only push back so much against the PR folks before they get antsy.

So he created a new Pete. A different Pete. A soft, naive Pete for the kids to latch onto and the media to eat up.

When he meets Ryan, he can’t help but to notice that he’s done the same thing, only in reverse. He spins a tale of tragedies and sex, booze and pills in his lyrics, in his words, things that he’s only read about or watched on TV, and the world eats them up. Hell, Pete eats them up, even if the illusion is dangerously thin. Ryan’s softer than he would ever let on, younger than he ever wanted to be, and he’s fighting it with all that he’s got.

Pete’s fascinated by him.

After he listens to them play, takes them out for dinner, and bids Brendon goodbye, Pete decides to do something about Ryan’s eyes that stare at him and then cut away when they’re caught.

“Come to my hotel,” he says, trying not to put anything extra behind his words. “Let’s talk.”

Ryan stares at him like Jesus himself sent him a gold-plated invitation to a heaven neither of them believe in, and nods, quicker than his words can tumble out.

They go to Pete’s hotel room, sit down on the bed, not so close that they touch, but only leaving a few inches separating them. Ryan looks even younger, then, eyes everywhere but Pete’s face and shoulders hunched, but words trying desperately to seem older, more confident than he is. Not as much as in his lyrics, not yet, but still tapping into that other Ryan, the one the world is about to know.

“You’re scared,” Pete says, eyes searching until they finally lock down Ryan’s gaze. “If I sign you, you’re going to be big. This label, it’s going to be big. Can you handle that?”

And Ryan blinks at him, the lines of his body tightening in apprehension. Pete continues, just letting him listen. “Brent, Spencer, Brendon, this isn’t _theirs _as much as it is yours. You care so fucking deeply about this, Ryan, I can tell from your words. From the way that you look so protective over every note. So I need to know that you can handle this.”

Ryan’s voice is shaky when he speaks. “I can,” he says, not moving his eyes away, for once. “I’m not a kid.” He says it like he expected something else out of this visit, out of this hotel room. Pete can’t really blame him. Part of the façade that he created was sex, but distilled. Puppy love, sexy, but only from afar. Only enough to put an edge to their songs that no one else in the band wanted to provide. Not that they should need to. Pete’s happy to let the world have the skin that peeks out from above his hips, the tattoos covering his body. They already have the rest of him, anyway.

“Okay,” Pete says, nodding. He doesn’t care if Ryan can convince him. He’s going to sign them, they’re fucking amazing and he can’t get them out of his head, the music twisting around like a parasite that never intends to leave. He cares that Ryan knows this, knows it before he ends up in a van somewhere, on the second or third stop of tour, crazed out of his mind with sudden worry, onset regret that just had the chance to settle in. Panic, and not just in the name of their band.

“I can,” he says again, as if he wants to make sure Pete heard. A moment passes, both of them trapped in the stillness of the room, stillness of the moment.

Ryan looks down. Pete knows what he’s going to ask before his mouth even opens. “Can I kiss you?”

Sweat prickles Pete’s palms, sweat that he just noticed. “You shouldn’t,” he says, instead of no. He should say no, should move a few more inches away on the bed, and start chattering about music. Ryan would let it go, he knows that, would fall into easy enough conversation until the clock gave Pete an excuse to drive him home.

But he doesn’t. Because now, in the muted light of the hotel room, their façades drop. Pete is back to being the hardcore king who has seen too much, done things that Ryan doesn’t even know exist. And Ryan is back to being the kid, still in high school and bursting to be older, practically begging for the corruption that he writes about.

Ryan sees through his words. “I know,” he says, voice lower than Pete’s ever heard it, “but can I?”

God, Patrick would kill him for this. Is going to kill him. But Pete nods, words stuck in his throat, and after a moment of tense, malleable silence, Ryan leans forward until their lips touch, hand falling on Pete’s thigh as he does. It should feel wrong kissing him, like he’s making Ryan do it so Pete will sign them, but it doesn’t. Ryan knows they’re getting signed. Pete said as much before, several times.

Pete kisses him, and for a moment, he lets himself be anyone but Pete Wentz. He lets himself be who he was seven or eight years ago, a kid clambering for attention, squeezing it out of anyone that he could. Reckless and loud and not caring who saw, what opinions they formed. He’s still like that, fucking bleeding for it, chasing any affection that he can even when he knows it’ll fade before he’s ready to let it go.

They don’t go any further. Ryan wants to, his hands palm Pete’s dick through his pants and his kisses become more insistent by the moment. It’s not because of the law, Pete’s not too worried about Ryan reporting him for statutory, but it’s not Pete’s place to take this. It’s not his place to turn Ryan into the Ryan that the world wants him to be. It’ll be Brendon’s job, he guesses, or Spencer’s, or maybe someone else, someone new, but it doesn’t need to be him. Maybe in a year, when Ryan’s got his footing and knows how this works, but not now.

The drive home is a sort of purgatory. They don’t talk, but the silence isn’t resentful. It’s just there. Waiting for them to speak.  
Before he gets out of the car, Ryan surges over and gives Pete a hot, demanding kiss, one that leaves Pete squeezing his crotch as he watches Ryan trek up Spencer’s doorstep and send him one last, long look.

He goes inside. Pete drives back to his hotel.

They don’t talk about it. As far as the two of them are concerned, it never happened.

Later, Pete finds out that it is Brendon that gives Ryan what he’s been asking for, what he’s been wanting.

Secretly, he’s happy. He may have fucked it up with Patrick, missed his opportunity, but they haven’t. He can’t fault them for that.


End file.
